I intended to spend the weekend writing original fiction, taking active steps to actually becoming a Best-Selling (or even Respectably-Selling) Author rather than merely day-dreaming about answering fanmail rather than working. Instead, I spent it running a lot of errands, sewing, going out for dinner on Saturday (involving negotiating a large number of drunks wending their ways from the fairground and, in the case of the men, taking advantage of tree trunks), and on Sunday, ironing in the garden whilst listening to Test Match Special. I’m also supposed to be writing a fic about Romilda Vane for omniocular, and therefore thinking a bit about how it might end. Oh, and there’s the femgenficathon fic I’ve got to produce as well. This being the case, naturally the only writing I did do was a bit of Wimsey fic for fun, and was it the backlog of Wimsey jottings waiting to be written up? No, it was not. Not even the Good Omens/Busman’s Honeymoon crossover ficlet. Finally, I failed to decide whether to go to the Dorothy L. Sayers Society annual convention, which is the sort of thing I tend to rather fancy but bottle out of due to fear that everybody there will be middle-aged and “weird” (and yet I go on group Nordic ski-ing holidays…)
Oh well, at least Doctor Who was good. Should a time machine ever transport me to an archaeological dig on any of a number of creepy planets with a certain resemblance to Welsh quarries, I shall have even more reason to sabotage their efforts asap. Do these people ever learn that drilling towards mysterious powers sources on said planets never ends well?
On another note entirely, does anyone know whether the parents of cricket writer Scyld Berry were especial fans of Beowulf?